


You Know I Never Even Cared, Not Before You

by Zoa



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Post-Reichenbach, happy reunion, little bit of drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoa/pseuds/Zoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(The title is an excerpt from the James Blunt song 'The Only One', which is the perfect song for Sherlolly. It's essentially the ship's theme song; or it should be.)</p><p>Molly Hooper starts the day as she does every day. Worrying about Sherlock Holmes. When she gets to work, though, there's a happy surprise in store for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molly Hooper and the Return of Sherlock Holmes

The day started as every other day. Molly Hooper woke up, showered, brushed her teeth, got dressed, and all the while worried about Sherlock. Not since the Fall had he ever left her mind, even for a minute.   
He had left two days later, after a quick but earnest thanks for her help in his subterfuge and false death. It was the first time she could think that he had thanked her and not meant it as a ploy to get to a corpse. She treasured that and the fact he trusted her to keep his secret, even from John.   
Molly looked at herself in the mirror as she braided her hair. She had changed, of that she was sure. The Fall changed all if them, but having to keep Sherlock safe, from John, from his enemies, and having to watch John and Mrs Hudson grieve while knowing that with two simple words she could heal them. The past two years had changed her, for the better she wasn't sure, but she did know that she would find out soon. Somehow, she simply knew it in her heart.   
She grabbed a quick breakfast in the form of a fried egg sandwich on her way out of the flat, deciding to get coffee at Bart's. She was fortunate to be in the state of mind to remember breakfast for once. Normally it was crisps and coffee in the mornings. When she arrived at Bart's she went to her locker, as was her usual habit, to hang up her brown overcoat and replace it with her white lab coat. She sighed as she pulled out her notebooks and a heavy textbook she was using for her latest paper, which she had yet to start writing. 

"A new paper. I look forward to reading it. I enjoyed your last, it actually helped me in Beirut."

Molly dropped everything and turned around slowly, her eyes wide as saucers. There he was, the man who had never left her thoughts or worries in over two years. 

"Hello, Dr. Hooper," he said, and smiled cheekily. "I hope there have been some good murders in town. I've been bored."  
He was dressed as he had been on that fateful day, that beautiful Belstaff coat over a freshly pressed shirt and trousers, and before she even knew what she was doing her arms were around his neck in a tight embrace, tears streaming down her face. She felt him slowly slide his arms around her in return, though she could tell he was a bit uncomfortable. Molly Hooper didn't care, though. Sherlock Holmes was back and she wanted him to know how much she had missed him.

Sherlock pulled away after a moment, clearing his throat. Molly smiled up at him broadly, her arms still around his neck. "You came back!" she said happily. 

He looked at her with the shadow of a smile. "Yes, I'm back. I felt you should be the first to know, since you did help me disappear." 

Her eyes widened even further. "I… John doesn't even know yet?" she stammered, removing her arms from around him. Sherlock's eyes looked pained for a moment and he shook his head, quickly returning to his usual stoic look. "I felt I owed you first knowledge. John will need to be approached differently." She nodded in response and then smiled at him again. "Thank you, Sherlock. I am very glad you're back."   
Indeed she was, and very pleased, despite her feelings John should have been the first to know, that Sherlock had come to her first. She looked up at him and shook her head. "You will go to him after leaving me, right? He needs to know you're back from you and not from some tabloid."  
Sherlock looked at her with an irritated expression. "I would never be careless enough to let a tabloid know I'm back before I wanted them to. I am not an idiot, Molly. If the tabloids and newspapers had found out, through some inexplicably irresponsible moves on my part, John would have already called Mycroft by now and would have been told I was alive in the most tactless way possible and I would have been exposed ahead of schedule, and I am always on schedule.”  
Molly blushed and looked down to hide her embarrassment. "I… I didn't mean to say…” she started to stammer. Why was it no matter what he always made her feel silly and moronic? She frowned and then raised her head to meet his eyes. "You ass! You know that’s not what I meant." She stated, standing up for herself for once. Sherlock looked at her in surprise and intrigue. Oh, Molly Hooper had grown a backbone… no, realized she had one. Apparently his fake death had not only let him realize she was strong, but also allowed her to find it out as well.  
Molly looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to reply. “Well? Are you going to see John now?” she prodded. He looked at her, once again giving her his full attention. “Yes, I’m going to him now, if he’s even at home. He has a…. a woman…” he made his face contort into one a mixture of disgust and a scowl that made Molly laugh.   
“I think you mean his fiancée, Mary Morstan,” she corrected him.   
“I know who she is,” he said sullenly. “I did do my research.” Molly gave him a scolding look.   
“Research? You’ve been spying on John?” her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “How long have you actually been in London?” she demanded. Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. “A week. I told you no one would know if I didn’t want them to.”   
Molly stared at him a moment but then broke into a grin and shook her head. “I can’t say I agree with your methods, Sherlock, but at least you care.” Sherlock smiled ruefully at her. “Sentiment: I have to admit, I did not know it could be so… affecting.” Molly nodded a little and smiled softly up at him. “You get used to it,” she said quietly.   
She looked down and realized her books were still on the floor and bent to pick them up, grappling with them as she straightened up, Sherlock watching. “Do be careful, Molly,” he murmured. “Those are expensive.” She looked at him with an exasperated look, but then smiled again, the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. “It’s good to have you home, Sherlock.”


	2. Molly Hooper and the Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally meets with John and Molly helps him when John reacts badly, also, Sherlock finds out Molly is engaged.

Sherlock rang the bell on Molly Hooper’s flat, his face one of irritation and confusion, along with one of his eyes being a purple-black color and his cheek bleeding. He had just seen John and announced to him that he was alive. John had been shocked, of course. Sherlock expected that, and had expected the swing to his face. What had been missed, and he cursed himself for always missing something, was that John would be so angry he would just walk away, his fiancée right behind him, annoyingly looking amused. Sherlock rang the bell of Molly’s flat again and once more for good measure. He needed to know what he had done that was ‘not good’, as John had used to point out to him. But now John was furious at him, and Sherlock had no one else to turn to except Molly. 

Now if she would only open the blasted door!

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It had been three days since she had seen Sherlock at St. Bart’s. There hadn’t been any word from him since, at least to her. So, Molly had gone about her business. Come home from work, change into her old uni t-shirt and shorts, put her glasses on, and get to work on her paper at her desk in her small living room in her small flat. The paper was due to the journal in two weeks, and she’d barely begun writing, though she had plenty of notes. She snacked on crisps and a glass of wine as she worked, once again her staple meal. It may not have been healthy – at least the crisps weren’t – but it stimulated her brain and got her through her work. That was the current situation in her flat at the moment someone began pounding on the door. Molly was so surprised she had jumped up and knocked over her glass of wine, all over the notes she had made. “Bloody hell!” she exclaimed and hurried to find a towel. The pounding didn’t let up as she salvaged as much of her work as she could, instead it increased, along with the addition of someone calling her name. Molly Hooper recognized the voice as that of Sherlock Holmes, apparently giving up on any and all subtlety in returning to London. “You can just keep breaking down my door, Sherlock,” she muttered to herself, angry at the man for his part in the ruination of her notes. “Maybe you’ll learn a little patience, you prat.” She carefully picked up the damp papers and set them on her couch on another towel in a neat little line, planning on them later with her hair dryer. First, she had a few choice words for a certain consulting detective. She stomped to the door and pulled it open. “What?” she snapped.  
Sherlock took a step back at her tone, and quickly deduced what had happened while he had been knocking on her door. The wine stain on her light blue university shirt, the anger in her eyes and tone, and the fact she was still holding a page of sodden notes in her left hand was enough to give him a fair picture of the state he was partially responsible for. He also noticed something else about her hand that he had missed at St. Bart’s three days earlier, and frowned deeply, suddenly more perturbed than he had come. His distraction from seeing her in clothes other than her usual dowdy work things was annoying too. It disrupted the symmetry she usually had.  
“Sherlock, I was in the middle of work. What’s so important that you had to virtually knock my door down… oh my goodness! What happened to your face?” Her eyes widened and she went into doctor-mode, cupping his face in her hands (incidentally dropping her notes) and turning his face so that his injured cheek was facing her as she examined the eye. Sherlock sighed and let her look. “John wasn’t as receptive to my return as I had expected. I missed something. Again.” Molly shook her head and pulled him into the flat by the arm.  
“Come on. I need to clean up that eye,” she led him to the living room and told him to stay there while she went to get her first aid kit. Sherlock paced the floor, surveying everything, deducting bits about her life he didn’t know, ones he did, and searching for clues to new developments; especially a certain new development that even Mycroft had missed, or decided to purposely not tell Sherlock. Molly returned too quickly for him to make any real scenarios and made him sit down in her desk chair as she gently cleaned the cut on his eye. “Tell me what happened.” She said softly, her eyes focused on his wound. He waited until the sting of the alcohol from the cleanser abated before answering.  
“I went to see John at a restaurant I knew he would be at tonight. He was with Miss Morstan. I assumed being with her, his attachment to her being strong, it would make it easier for him to transition. In addition, I didn’t want the awkward ‘meet the girlfriend’ scene which would inevitably happen if I went to him privately. This avoided any discomfort… what?” He looked at her with a raised brow. She had finished bandaging his eye and now looked at him with an incredulous look that verged on giving him the insane look. After a moment she blinked and found her voice. “You went to a public restaurant, when John was on a date with Mary, and just popped in. As if nothing had changed. You… you are the stupidest man in the world, Sherlock Holmes.”  
He looked at her in disbelief, utterly startled. He hadn’t thought Molly Hooper, who seemed to find him the most brilliant man in existence (something he had used to his own advantage) even had that combination of words in her vocabulary. In addition, the declaration irritated his ego. “What,” he demanded, “do you mean by that?”  
Molly had stepped back and crossed her arms, finished with her care of his eye, and looked at him in exasperation. “I mean that for a man who can look at a person and know almost everything about them in one second, you can’t figure out the right way to tell your own best friend that you’re alive. That’s ironic. Stupidly so.” Sherlock gave her a very sullen look and stood up, looming over her. “And what is it you would have suggested I do?” Molly dropped her arms to her sides and met his gaze head on. “If you had come to me,” she replied. “I would have told you to call Mycroft and have him help you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked mockingly. “Mycroft? Do you think he would have been subtler in breaking the news? My brother can keep a secret very well, I grant, but I’m afraid he inherited the same ability to communicate with close friends as I did, if he had any.” He walked to the window and stood before it, looking out over the dark street, only illuminated by the lamps on the sidewalk, and she could tell he was brooding. Molly knew it was his way of telling her he was hurt, but didn’t know if it was because of her or mostly because of John’s reaction.  
“Sherlock,” she joined him at the window and looked up at him. “He’ll come round. He loves you. But you gave him such a shock.” He crossed his arms but didn’t otherwise respond. Molly sighed and looked out the window, thinking about how she could help him. He obviously wanted her help, else why had he come? She was still thinking when suddenly he turned around and faced her with an almost accusing look. “You didn’t tell me you were engaged.”  
Molly blinked, startled by his blank statement. His tone, if she didn’t know better, would have sounded hurt. She also didn’t know why he was focusing on that when the issue with John was more pressing, she assumed. “I-I didn’t think… well, I haven’t really had the chance. And I sort of guessed you probably already knew.” She stammered a little and flushed. Even if he hadn’t known, she didn’t know why he would care. It wasn’t like her engagement would change her position at St. Bart’s; she would still work there. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he looked at her. “You only just got engaged… not two, no, three weeks ago. You forget sometimes. He must not be very special if your mind doesn’t always recall he’s your fiancée, almost a month into your engagement.” He smirked, but that smug smile was wiped away when he saw her reaction. She flushed again, angrily this time and clenched her hands into fists. “He is special; very special. He treats me like he cares about me. Unlike some people I know.” She said venomously. Sherlock was quite obviously taken aback by her words. He stared at her, his face a mask, and Molly realized herself and sighed and shook her head. “Right now isn’t the time to discuss this, Sherlock. I’m not sure any time is right or even necessary.” She looked up at him, her eyes no longer angry, but sad. “I’m engaged, yes, and I’m… I’m happy. Let’s leave it at that and deal with John.”  
Sherlock watched her and caught a flicker in her eyes, a hesitance in her voice when she claimed she was happy, as if she wasn’t being entirely honest. Molly was a mystery to him sometimes, and had surprised him more than once in the years he had known her, but he knew when she was feeling and what she was feeling, and he knew now she wasn’t happy with whoever this man was. Not entirely. For some reason it made him cheer up some, which was rather disturbing to him, but he had no time to think about sentiment toward Molly. John needed to be placated first. He nodded once and gave her his full attention. “Very well. What would you suggest I do?”

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John was still sitting in his armchair, the only thing besides his personal items he had moved from Baker Street to Mary’s apartment, thinking about the ghost he had seen in the restaurant the night before. He hadn’t gone to bed, or even said much to Mary besides goodnight and ‘I love you’, as he always did. Being gracious and understanding, Mary had left him alone, although she didn’t mind fuming to herself that Sherlock Holmes was an utter ass and she would be glad to give him a piece of her mind and maybe clock him one as John had, although harder. She had gone to bed furious at her fiancée’s formerly dead friend and had woken up just as furious, if not more, because John was still in that armchair. He didn’t really react when she kissed his cheek, only a mumbled good morning. Only when Mary started to make breakfast did he move, probably because he smelled the tea brewing and needed that fortifying liquid. Although he didn’t talk about what had happened, he seemed to wake up a little after that and she was glad. He needed to be himself if he was going to able to face Sherlock again, as she knew he would have to soon. What she couldn’t fathom was that it was going to be that morning. After helping her clean up the breakfast things, the bell to the flat rang and John went to answer it, and not long after that, Mary heard a cracking noise and a heavy thump, like a body had fallen. She hurried to the door and found John standing over a supine Sherlock Holmes, whose left eye had been bandaged, but now bled again, the bandage hanging off his face. John fumed, his clenching and unclenching his fist. He didn’t say anything, only stared at Sherlock, even as the undead detective slowly got to his feet.  
“You’ll hurt your hand if you keep doing that, John,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “If I’m not mistaken, your knuckles are already bruised.” He took the now-ruined bandage off his face, fully revealing the old bruise and the newly forming one. John seemed to come out of his rage at the sight of his friend hurt and looked at Sherlock with tears in his eyes and before Sherlock knew what had happened he was embraced by his friend. Molly hadn’t warned about that. He didn’t have long to worry about how to react, as John quickly disengaged and stood straight. “You’re a prat,” he said, wiping his eyes. “An utter ass and… and…”  
“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said quickly and John stopped, gaping. Mary looked in surprise at Sherlock in imitation of John, having heard Sherlock Holmes wasn’t exactly the most contrite person in the world. Sherlock continued before John had time to respond. “You’re quite right in your estimation of me. I should not have come to you as I did last night. I did not fully realize, as I should have, the shock you would suffer. You deserved more, as my friend. I can only hope you can forgive me for that, and for deceiving you with my death.”  
Mary smiled and watched John, who took a breath and looked his old friend in the eyes. “Well, it’s a start Sherlock.” He said.


	3. Sherlock Holmes and the Pathologist's Fiancee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Molly's fiancee and doesn't like him, but denies himself as to why.

A month into Sherlock’s return to life, he and John had finally come to the point of being friends again, although John still had questions about Sherlock’s time abroad and how Sherlock had survived. Sherlock kept that bit of his secret hidden for just a bit longer, either from being pleased that only he knew the truth, or because he was still wary of anyone from Moriarty’s people still being alive and possibly going after Molly. She was the only one besides Sherlock who knew how he had managed to fake his death, and he didn’t want her to fully acknowledged as the person who had helped him. John had to be satisfied, for a little while, with simply having his friend back and cleared of the charges made by the police. Sherlock, in his journeys to eliminate Moriarty’s network, had found substantial evidence that would clear his name and satisfy the authorities that James Moriarty had been real. It was on no small part of Mycroft that Sherlock had managed to come back as well, with his brother pulling every string he had in order to get that information past the corrupt authorities and to the right ones. Things had returned to normal, for the most part. Except for that Sherlock was once again living alone on Baker Street, and John spent only half his time on cases with the detective. He saw Molly almost every day, except on Thursday nights she left early, not telling him why. He deduced quite easily though that Thursday was ‘date night’ with her fiancée. They hadn’t discussed her engagement since the day Sherlock had come to her for help with John. He didn’t bring it up, and she never offered.  
On most Thursdays Sherlock didn’t mind that she would leave, but on this Thursday he was on a most pressing case and Sherlock needed her to do some tests for him. In addition, he was in a very contrary mood since John had decided to make this day the one he and Mary went venue scouting for their wedding. “You have left early or been gone every Thursday since I returned, surely you can sacrifice one night to help me,” he stated to Molly crossly, as he sat at his usual microscope. Molly sighed and nodded in resigned agreement. “Fine. I’ll stay for a little while longer and have him pick me up here.” She muttered, putting her clipboard down and heading toward her office. Sherlock looked after her a moment before returning to his investigation. He would meet her oh-so-wonderful fiancée then. Perhaps he was wonderful, perhaps he was another ‘Jim from IT,’ he would soon deduce just what sort of man Molly had decided to give her heart to. Sherlock suddenly scowled and shook his head sharply. It didn’t matter who she married or dated, as long as she still worked at Bart’s. He couldn’t have another pathologist come in and ruin his work. He told himself this as he went back to examining the amoebas. 

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Two hours later, as Molly was letting Sherlock look over a body (more study over how a dead body bruises), a man walked into the morgue. He was tall, about Sherlock’s height, but gangly, with brown eyes and dark blonde hair. Molly turned around and blushed when she saw him. “Tom!” she smiled as she walked forward to greet him. ‘Tom’ wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her, unashamedly in front of Sherlock. Sherlock watched, his arms folded across his chest, his face a mask. Molly pulled away from Tom quickly, her face a deep, deep shade of red. “Um, Tom, this- this is Sherlock Holmes, my-my… he works here sometimes. Sherlock, this is Tom Hope. My fiancée.” She mumbled. Sherlock smiled sweetly and stood, offering his hand to Tom, who looked a bit star-struck.  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hope.” He said, emphasizing pleasure, which made Molly look at him suspiciously. He smiled at her as well, which only made her all the more suspicious. In the meantime, Tom seemed to be enjoying the surprise of meeting the person he had only read about.  
“The Sherlock Holmes?” Tom Hope exclaimed, looking at Molly with a surprised smile and then back at Sherlock. “The one who faked his death in that extraordinary manner?” Sherlock smiled again, less sweetly and more like a cat tolerating a being of lower existence. “Yes, that Sherlock,” he said lightly and sat back down abruptly and went back to his work. Molly’s fiancée turned to her with a confused frown and she shook her head. “Ignore him,” she said quietly, taking Hope’s arm. “He’s like that to everyone.” Tom nodded slowly, although he still looked confused as Molly began to pull him away.  
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew him, Molly?” he whispered, stopping at the entrance to the morgue.  
“He was supposed to be dead when we met. I’ll explain when we get to dinner.” She muttered, opening the door to the morgue.  
Sherlock looked up as they left, his mind going back to when Tom had entered and just decided to kiss Molly. He didn’t know why Molly put up with such public displays of affection, it obviously showed some sort of insecurity on her fiancee’s part. Most likely because Hope knew he wasn’t half as intelligent as Molly. The man was a nurse, not even a doctor, whom she had met while working at St. Bart’s apparently, considering his familiarity with the hospitals halls and the morgue itself. Not a chief nurse, though, by the way the man seemed to lope around like a giraffe. He must be quite clumsy with such long limbs, in addition to have undiscovered nearsightedness. He didn’t have much ambition either, from what Sherlock could see. No, Sherlock fumed, this Tom Hope person wasn’t the man for Molly. He loved her, that couldn’t be denied, but it certainly wasn’t enough.  
A part of Sherlock’s brain, his rational side, the one he thought he been working with as he puzzled out his thoughts about Molly Hooper’s fiancée, kicked in and suddenly he realized that Hope’s appearance in Molly’s life wouldn’t really affect Sherlock. Molly would still work at St. Bart’s, Sherlock would still have her to help him with his experiments and give him access to the morgue and whatever else he needed. They would still be friends. Friend is all he ever wanted to be with her, with anyone. Anything more was impossible; he was married to his work and that was that. What his brain couldn’t help him with, was that strange feeling of loss he had felt when he saw her engagement ring, and again when Tom had come into the morgue and kissed Molly. It wasn’t normal and it made Sherlock supremely uncomfortable. He would have to research this emotion, as he knew it must be. Having a new appreciation for sentiment was helping with his relationships, but it brought confusion as well. He sighed in frustration and went back to his work, forcing his brain to concentrate on the sample under the microscope, instead of figuring out his feelings. He would have to tell Molly his thoughts about her fiancée, but that was because he was a good friend, not because of any underlying reason that she meant more. He didn’t want to see her throw her life away on some idiot who would eventually cheat on her with a paramedic. Yes, that is what he would do, as he did with all her romantic interests. He was only looking out for her, the way she looked out for him.


	4. Sherlock Holmes and the Not Good Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells Molly exactly what he thinks about Tom Hope and she stands up to him.

In the spirit of protecting Molly, Sherlock determined that the next time he saw her he would tell her exactly what he thought of Tom Hope and advise her to break up with him. It was for her own good. The nurse would never make her happy. He exited the cab when it reached St. Bart’s that day and strode confidently into the morgue. John would meet him there in an hour or so. Sherlock deduced he would have plenty of time to convince Molly that Hope was not right for her. He scanned the room and frowned when he didn’t see the pathologist, but then realized she must be in her office. He scowled impatiently and walked quickly to the door, bursting in without knocking. Molly was hunched over her breakfast of crisps and coffee and jumped as he entered, knocking over the coffee. With a soft curse she hurried to clean it up, Sherlock watching in amusement. “Sherlock! Why is it you make me knock things over?” she exclaimed, picking up the sodden napkins and dumping them into the bin.  
“I am not in control of your physical capacities, Molly,” Sherlock replied, his tone expressing how very boringly obvious the fact was. “Perhaps it would be best that you didn’t put your beverages near any important devices or papers. There is a risk you may ruin something due to your lack of normal coordination.”  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly said, her eyes wide, her tone sarcastic, but her face flushed, as was usual every time he said something that was hurtful. “Because I needed you to state the obvious.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at her response. She looked away and picked up the chips, pushing past him into the morgue. “I’ve got your body,” she mumbled as she left the office. “I mean, the body for your case.”  
“Thank you, Molly,” he said quietly, following her. She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprised by the acknowledgement.  
“You’re welcome, Sherlock,” she murmured in reply, managing a little smile.  
After Molly had pulled the body out for Sherlock to examine, she went to check on her tests from the last autopsy she did. Sherlock looked her way after a little while. “Molly, Hope is in an idiot and you shouldn’t marry him. He will only convince you to be a housewife and waste your abilities as a pathologist, because he’s jealous of your achievements, what little there are. He will mostly likely have an affair with the blonde paramedic at some point, having an acute fixation on her bosom. He’s already eyeing her…” he stopped talking when he saw Molly’s expression, pale, her mouth wide open as she stared at him. He couldn’t read her, which was odd, because for the most part he could always tell what Molly was thinking. He could tell her breathing had escalated, however.  
“S-sherlock,” she finally spoke, although the tension that had filled the room didn’t abate. “H-how dare you?”  
Sherlock frowned, feeling rather confused. “Molly, I-“  
“No.” She cut him off, her pale face flushing again. “No. You don’t get to do that. Not again. Why is it you always want to ruin any chances of happiness I might have?” She started to move slowly toward him as she spoke.  
“I am only looking out for you, Molly,” he replied stiffly. “If you want to make the biggest mistake of your life then please, ignore my advice.” Suddenly he felt something surprisingly strong hit his cheek and his head turned to the left from the force. Molly slowly lowered her hand and glared at him angrily. “You’re not giving advice, Sherlock. You’re trying to control my life!” she snapped. “Tom is a wonderful man and he loves me! He doesn’t ask me for ridiculous favors, or tell me my lips are too thin or…” she stammered, failing in her resolve because of past embarrassments. Sherlock looked at her in shock, his eyes wide. “He’s not an utter, selfish ass who takes advantage of me and then says awful things.” She finished, having found her strength again.  
Sherlock was silent. The only sound in the room was the whirring of the freezers and the small alarm that meant Molly’s tests were done. Anger coursed through Molly so that it was almost palpable, but Sherlock could also see the hurt in her eyes. He wondered why he felt the need to say hurtful things, why did he feel the need to make her stay his pathologist, and no one else’s.  
“Molly,” he spoke, his voice low and slightly rueful. “I don’t want to see you hurt…”  
“Enough, Sherlock!” she interrupted again. “You don’t want that, you just want to be sure I’m not distracted, that I don’t have someone else to take time away from you. John managed to move on in the last two years, and so did I, Sherlock.” She pointed to herself. “I moved on. I don’t belong to you. You don’t get to decide. I do.”  
As Sherlock searched his brain for ways to appease Molly, as she watched him, waited for him to apologize, say anything, even snap at her to ease the pain in her aching heart, John walked into the morgue, whistling cheerfully.  
“Hello, Mol…ly…” he slowed down and looked between the two of them, sensing the struggle now and the argument before. “Ah, did I interrupt something?”  
Molly shook her head and turned to John, sad and disappointed. “No, John. You didn’t interrupt anything. I’ll just let you two look over the body. Come get me when you’re finished.” She went back to her office, closing the door with a soft click. Sherlock’s eyes trailed after her, his mind buzzing. John came up to him and vaguely Sherlock heard him ask what was wrong, but the consulting detective didn’t answer, his mind far too occupied on Molly to listen to John

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Molly went home early that day, feeling completely drained and utterly exhausted. Not only had her work load been heavy, but she had gotten angry at Sherlock, pretty much bursting at him with years of repressed anger and hurt. She collapsed on her couch, causing Toby, her cat, to scurry out of the way or get crushed. He meowed his discontent by Molly ignored him, her eyes focused on the ceiling and the strange mix of emotions in her heart. She still loved him, even after all she had said about moving on, she still loved him. She had tried desperately to forget how much, to push those feelings aside and tell herself that relationship would never happen, while he was gone, and thought it had worked when she met Tom. But with Sherlock’s return to life those feelings bubbled up inside her again. If she were perfectly honest with herself the reason she had blown up at Sherlock that day wasn’t only because of his cruel (and, as always, accurate) deductions, but because he once again entered her life and made her realize that she would never be able to move on. He had captured her heart and there it would stay. Only it would forever be unrequited and unreturned. Molly felt hot tears slide down her cheeks and she turned onto her side, sobbing into the couch’s pillows. Toby jumped up on her lap and purred, his attempt at comfort.  
The only solace Molly got, though, was that Sherlock had missed something in his deductions about Tom. It wasn’t the pretty blonde woman paramedic he’d eyed, but the redheaded male.


End file.
